


meus filius est meus vita

by Mishaspanties



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Gen, Tom Riddle adopts Harry
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-11-30
Updated: 2016-08-11
Packaged: 2018-01-03 01:21:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 2,786
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1063987
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mishaspanties/pseuds/Mishaspanties
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Were you the one in my dreams?" Harry asks.<br/>"I don't know, Mr. Potter," the figure before him replies. "But I very well could be."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. morpheus

**Author's Note:**

> This will be a series of ficlets of varying lengths of 400-1k words. But not surpassing that, I believe. UNBETA'D. (please tell me if there are spelling errors or anything, it is 5 am haha what is sleep)

Harry didn’t really like the Dursleys.

They never beat him. They fed him, gave him a place to sleep, and gave him clothes. He should be grateful, they say to him. But he still didn’t like them, not at all. He’d stare enviously at the toys and games that Dudley got or at the heaping amounts of food he got, and especially at the hugs he’d get.

He wanted hugs, too. The ones where loving, motherly arms swept around him and help him close to a warm, familiar chest. Or great big ones, where he picked up from the ground and twirled around.

Sometimes, after the rare days he gets to go out in public, he’d lay down in his tiny cupboard under the stairs and just imagine. He’d imagine what it would be like to be one of those little boys, running up to the shop windows and pressing their noses against the cool glass; to have a father or a mother who would hold his hand carefully when walking the street, instead of a bruising grip on his shoulder; sometimes he would think of the strangers he’d seen and wonder what it would be like if they were his mother or father.

He falls asleep like this, curled up into a ball and dreaming of a better place.

-

When Harry sleeps, he dreams snippets of words, of conversation - of a voice hungry to kill, to maim, to torture. When he first heard the voice in his dreams, he had run to his Aunt and Uncle, hoping for some reprieve - instead, he was locked inside the cupboard under the stairs for a week with only a bit of bread and water each day to eat. It was the longest time he had ever been in there.

He learned, then, that it was one of the freakish things about him, and it was never to be discussed - ever.

So, he dreamt of that voice, so serpentine in manner, and he sometimes dreamed that he spoke to that voice and they both hissed. He tells the voice all about him and the Dursleys - how they treated him very well because he deserved that much. He was grateful. Very grateful. He thinks. That’s what they told him - to be grateful.

He thinks the voice gets angry at him when he says that, but the voice still tells him about a magical place - Hogwarts.

Harry is delighted with these stories, and he dreams of a massive castle, a lake, and green and silver tapestries.

These dreams last from ages four through eight, until suddenly - they stop. No more dreams of magic and wonder. They’re replaced with fuzzy, dull dreams punctuated with vivid nightmares of the one time Aunt Petunia has raised a hand against him. He feels a little bit lonely without the reassurace of a kind friend in his mind at night.

And as the days grow nearer to his ninth birthday, he begins to become more anxious and worried. What if his friend - if his friend is real at all - is hurt? Maybe he did something wrong when he was awake, and now the voice doesn’t want to talk to him. Maybe the Dursleys are right. He’s deserved whatever he’s had coming all along. On July 31st of his 9th birthday, Harry Potter falls asleep curled inside the cupboard under the stairs of Number Four Privet Drive and dreams of nothing.


	2. janus

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! I wasn't thinking of pairing Harry with anyone, but I kind of want to, now...

The Dursleys were going to Spain.

This was not an unusual plan for them during the summer, but it was unusual that they'd be gone for this long.

A month. They were going to leave for a month. Harry didn't know how long he would last in Mrs. Figg's care. He _hated_ staying at Mrs. Figg's home. He didn't know if it was the many, many cats she housed in her home or the funny way she sometimes looked at him, like she could see all of him. Harry wrinkles his nose as he scrubs at the dishes, arms arching with effort. Even with the stool, it was hard to reach the sink; he was small for his age.

"Boy, don't wrinkle your nose like that," Aunt Petunia sniffs from the table as she daintily eats her breakfast.

"Yes, Aunt Petunia."

"Well, it wouldn't matter, anyways, even if your face gets stuck like that," Uncle Vernon says as he reads from the newspaper. "Once a freak, always a freak. A nasty face wouldn't change that." He lets out a terrible belch and excuses himself. Harry barely stops himself from wrinkling his nose again.

-

 Later, when the Dursleys have dropped him off at Mrs. Figg's house, he's in bed under the scratchy covers of the bed in the guest room. It's a bit alien, no matter how many times he's stayed over. He's not used to the open space around him as he sleeps. 

Harry is just about to drift into sleep, when a knock on the door resounds through the house. He sits up in his bed, rubbing at his grainy eyes, when he looks at the clock. It's just past midnight.

He hears Mrs. Figg stumbling through the dark halls, muttering about unpleasant neighbors. She opens the door.

There's a soft "Oh-!" and a quiet thump.

He sits up straighter in his bed. It's eerily quiet. Heavy footsteps resound through the hallway towards the bedroom. "Mrs. Figg? Is that you?" His voice tremors. The bedroom door creaks open, and Harry gasps because the large, looming figure is certainly not Mrs. Figg. He scrambles from the bed, moving to the window, but it comes closer.

"Harry... Harry Potter." The figure standing before him, Harry can now see, is a man. Young, in fact. The way he says his name sends shivers down his back. It's like... He's tasting it. Seeing how it feels. The man kneels. "You are Harry Potter, yes?"

Harry can only nod mutely in fear, but... His voice. It sounds familiar.

"Were you the one in my dreams?" Harry asks.

"I don't know, Mr. Potter," the figure before him replies. "but I very well could be." There's a gleam in the man's eyes, as he stands up and holds his hand out to Harry. Entranced, he tentatively reaches his own hand out to grip the man's.

"Who are you?" Harry asks as they step over Mrs. Figg's prone form into the night.

"Tom Marvolo Riddle. And you, Harry, are now mine."

Harry doesn't look back.


	3. inceptiones novae

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait. Any comments on what you would like to see would be helpful! This is a purely indulgent fic though, so I highly doubt you will see anything too dark or serious.  
> I actually had this chapter and the next written AGES ago, but I was worried about the fact I didn't have any idea where I was going. I still don't. Have fun, anyways.

"Where are we going?" little Harry asks.

 

"Home," the man simply says. Harry shrugs. He thinks he should be afraid. After all, he doesn't even know the man. He has this sort of... Scary air about him. Harry doesn't know how else to describe it. But the man took him from the Dursleys, so he can't be too bad. He even called Harry by his own name instead of "freak" or "boy". Unless...

 

Unless it was some awfully mean ploy by the Dursleys. And by nightfall, maybe he'll be in a terrible place, worse than even Number four Privet Drive.

 

He stops walking, his grip in the man's hand going slack. The man looks back at him, looking mighty annoyed. Harry only looks down at his feet stubbornly.

 

"Harry? What is it? The portkey is set to go off in ten minutes. We mustn't be late."

 

Harry doesn't answer and instead stands before him, continuing to look at the toes of his ratty sneakers.

 

 __"Harry?" The man doesn't sound annoyed anymore. He sounds angry. Harry shivers. "We don't have all day." Harry mutters something under his breath. "Louder, Harry. I can't understand all your mumbling. And look up at me." He does.

 

"Please don't take me to a bad place! I promise I'll be good! I can cook and I - I can clean, too, very well, though never to Aunt Petunia's liking, but please don't hurt me or lock me up! I'll be good, I pinkie promise!" Harry is crying, then, fat tears threatening to run down his face. He clutches the hem of the man's long, black cloak.

 

Silence, then a heavy sigh. Strong arms pick him up by the armpits and Harry barely stops himself from squirming in surprise. He is settled haphazardly onto the stranger's hip and he instinctively wraps his arms around the man's neck, sniffing all the while.

 

"Well," the man says awkwardly. "if it seems I must be your father, then I shall. I am Tom Marvolo Riddle, and from this day forth, I shall be your father."


	4. ophiuchus

“So, Hogwarts really _is_ real?” little Harry asks.

“Yes,” says Tom, annoyed. “I've told you before.” He wants to be patient because he needs Harry to trust him. That wouldn't happen if he blew up at him. Of course, Harry's non-stop questions didn't help at all.

“Wow,” Harry says, kicking his feet from his perch on the couch. “and I get to go there when I'm eleven?”

“Yes, Harry. I've told you before. Now, get back to your reading.” Tom taps the book Harry has in his lap and then turns back to his own book. Harry hums as he reads, quietly sounding out the words when needed. It was only ten minutes later when Harry looks up again.

“What is it now, Harry? Your father is trying to do _work_ here.” Tom sets down his papers again, peering over to where Harry was looking down at his hands, ashamed.

“But _Father_ , are these tales _really_ true? Do the Deathly Hallows _really_ exist?” Harry stops swinging his legs and stares up at the man. Tom pauses. On one hand, there are some things about his past that he knew he shouldn't let Harry know about. However, on the other hand, he wants to cultivate Harry's intellect and encourage his curiosity.

“Where do you think a story or a myth begins? There is some truth in everything.” He leaves Harry to ponder that for a moment.

–

Harry has been living with his new family for three months. He has never really thought about the Dursleys or what had happened when they received notice that he was gone. Other things occupy his mind: his new father, Tom, taught him all sorts of things. He gave Harry a toy wand and taught him spells like _lumos_ and _expelliarmus_ and the _Jelly Legs Jinx_ (even though he couldn't quite perform them as well as his father). His father even lets Harry watch as he brews this or that potion.

All in all, his new life as a wizard is  _magical._

_-_

There is a boy in his room.

After being swept away from the Dursleys by his new father, he has been surrounded by tutors and his father's followers; he has not seen anyone his age in awhile.

"Hello," Harry says hesitantly. The other boy turns away from where he had seemed to be examining a glass figurine closely. He is blonde and only slightly taller than Harry. His face reminded him of a ferret, and he had to suppress a giggle. He also had a look on his face that Harry could only describe as snooty: it was the same expression his own father held when dealing with particularly annoying followers.

"Hello," the boy says. "My name is Draco Malfoy. You must know my father. Lucius Malfoy. A very important man. You've heard of him, yes?" Harry opens his mouth to say, no, he's never heard of a Lucius Malfoy, but is interrupted by Malfoy blabbering on without a care. "Anyways, Father told me to make friends with you." He eyes Harry for a moment. "... It seems like you'll do. Father told me that you are also a Very Important Person, but I honestly don't see it." Harry flattens the hair covering his scar self consciously. "I - or we now, I guess - have a party to go to, hosted by the Parkinsons at their ancestral manor. Not as old or as grand ours, but I guess not everyone can be as rich as us. But you know who they are, don't you? Of course you do. It is in two weeks and we must wear shades of -"

"Do you ever stop talking?" Harry snaps. "You need an 'Off' button, I swear."

"Why would I need to take off my buttons?" Malfoy asks, a frown wrinkling his unfortunately perfect brow. Harry sighs and turns to leave, heading toward the library. 

-

Harry is... regretting.

He wishes he had stayed at home instead, where there were no strangers bumping uagainst him in the crowded ballroom. The unfamiliar clothing also doesn't help at all. It's a robe, though he still cant think of it as something other than a dress, and he's only wearing it because his father had insisted on proper formal wear for the occasion. He does admit though, that the gray and green shimmer does bringout his eyes. Even his scar was meticulously covered with makeup powder and he has to remind himself not to scratch it.

A voice pipes up from behind him. "Harold! There you are! I've been looking all over for you!" It's Draco and trailing behind him are four other children around his age.

"Hello, Draco." Harry greets politely, even though the sight of him makes him cringe inwardly. He was taught manners, though, and keeps his annoyance at bay. "Who is this with you?" He asks smiling at the entourage behind Draco.

"This is Pansy Parkinson - whose, ah, home you stand in - Blaise Zabini, Vincent Crabbe, and Gregory Goyle. Lady and gentlemen, this is Harold Asclepius. His father is old friends with my father. He's very important." Harry is reminded of the first time he met Draco. Apparently it doesnt matter whether or not he actually looks important if he gets Draco impressed looks.

"Its nice to meet you," says Parkinson, and they are all led away by Draco, who is still chattering on. Harry and Parkinson both share a look, and he can't help but feel this may be the start of a great friendship.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was reminded that I had a chapter I never posted.


	5. winter morning

When he breathes, his breath comes out in a cloud of white. A few years ago, he would not have taken much delight in this, but now, bundled up in plenty of layers with his father by his side, Harry is not bothered. He lets out another stream of air and laughs when it fogs up his glasses.

He is ten with bright eyes and a thirst for knowledge that didn't belong in him before. A fact that makes his father proud. A future Ravenclaw, no doubt, his father often says. (But Harry has a feeling that he would be _especially_ pleased if he were sorted into Slytherin.) It is cold enough outside that the streets of Diagon Alley is not as crowded as usual. Another deep breath of the cold, fresh air – and he sneezes. His father directs him to a nearby shop and they are both hit by warm air and the scent of coffee. A cafe.

“Your handkerchief, son.” Father reminds him, and he dutifully pulls it out and wipes his nose. The word “son” never fails to put a smile on his face because before now he had never had a real family. Now, he can learn and talk as much as he wants and he even gets hugs (though usually in the comfort and privacy of their home. Harry understands that some propriety must be maintained in public.) They sit at a booth and Father gestures to a waitress.

“Coffee for me. Black. And a hot chocolate for my son.” She nods and takes down his order. Harry beams up at his father; it's not often that they get to go out like this alone, for fear that they might stand out, and it's even less common for him to be treated with a sweet drink. In a little over half a year, though, he will be off to Hogwarts – away from the comforts of the manor and his only family. Though his father doesn't show it, Harry suspects that he worries more than he lets on: mainly because he will soon be under the influence of one Albus Dumbledore. 

("Curse that meddlesome old man and his followers!" A statement that seems to occur more and more often the closer September 1st gets.)

There is much that Harry doesn't know about his past life before they both took on pseudonyms. Often, his father can be found brooding by the fire, twirling an odd ring around his finger. But... despite his worries, Harry is determined to enjoy this year with his father before he has to leave for Hogwarts.

For now, they have each other, the cold morning, and warm drinks in their hands.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> saporem_amarum requested: "Since you asked and it's kinda cold right now, I would like to see how Harry handels his first Hot Chocolate and Tom just being an dorky father." (Oct. 31 2015)
> 
> It's August, so obviously I'm late (early?) for this, but it took me almost a year turning it around my head, wondering how I would do this... In the end, it's not quite what you suggested, but I hope you enjoy it anyways. I figure it would be a good intro to his upcoming birthday. I think my desire to write this stems from the fact that it is about 100 degrees here...
> 
> Please feel free to suggest whatever your heart desires. :) I will get to it... eventually. Even if it takes me a year.   
> Lastly... This is entirely indulgent. I haven't put much thought to how Tom has gotten his human body back, except "magic" and Harry is not a horcrux. Speculation is always welcomed, but I hope you feel some enjoyment with a very cute Harry, who, through the power of Love and Adorableness, has turned Tom's heart away from evil etc etc...
> 
> As always... please point out any grammar mistakes. I am only human, after all.
> 
> Up next: Harry turns 11! What new people shall he meet?


End file.
